Harry Potter and the Second War
by Raeyven
Summary: Pre- Half-Blood Prince canon, this is my own version of Years Six and Seven although elements of both HBP and Deathly Hallows will feature.


**Harry Potter and the Second War**

* * *

_Life for everyone is about to be turned upside down. Never has the phrase 'nothing will ever be the same again' meant so much._

_The lines between enemy and friend will blur in a story where lies and deceit are key. Just who can be trusted? _

_And amongst everything love blossoms for the most unlikely of couples. But set against a backdrop of war and death, can it survive?_

* * *

**One ~ A Sign of Weakness**

* * *

The summer of Harry Potter's sixteenth year elapsed, by his usual standards, rather peacefully.

There were no Brazilian Boa Constrictors to set free, no unexpected visits from well-meaning House Elves or midnight rides in flying Muggle cars.

None of Vernon Dursley's obnoxious relatives came to stay – Aunt Marge herself had vowed never to set foot in Little Whinging again, although she couldn't quite remember why after her memory had been altered.

And the Dementors were also keeping their distance.

Even the troubled dreams that had been plaguing Harry of late since the death of his godfather, Sirius, had ceased.

But Harry found he couldn't relax no matter how hard he tried. It was all too quiet. Like the calm before a storm.

Much of the time he spent whiling away the long hours in his bedroom with Hedwig his sole companion, scrutinising copies of The Daily Prophet from cover to cover for anything of significance, or trying to catch up on essays for school.

In fact he only ever left his room to use the bathroom. His meals were brought up to him, although this time they were left outside his door with a sharp knock to let him know.

He wasn't locked in, but it had been made quite clear that he wasn't welcome downstairs.

Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia barely spoke to him now following their encounter with Moody, Tonks and Arthur Weasley at Kings Cross station at the end of term. Harry was certain that the very threat of Mad-Eye Moody - or indeed anyone from the Ministry of Magic - turning up on their doorstep or down their chimney to check on his well-being must be giving them sleepless nights.

As for Dudley, the only times Harry so much as glimpsed his portly cousin was from his bedroom window as he came and went with Piers Polkiss and the rest of his gang of bullies. He strongly suspected that his aunt and uncle had warned their son to stay away from Harry to avoid any of the usual friction between the two.

Normally, Harry would have welcomed this enforced isolation. But with nothing to keep him busy, no household chores or the verbal sparring with Dudley, which he had to admit he enjoyed, he found he had more time alone with his thoughts. And right now that was the last thing he needed.

Finding a way to cope with the loss of the only father figure he'd ever known was difficult enough. He didn't think he would ever forget the twisted look of horror on Sirius Black's face as he had fallen from their world. But the events of that fateful night at the end of last term had also signalled the start of something Harry wasn't sure he was quite ready to face. Something that he wasn't ashamed to admit, to himself at least, frightened him.

He was, after all, only sixteen. A young man. He should be worrying about exams, and girls, and enjoying his teenage years. Living life without any cares.

He reached up and ran his fingers over the scar on his forehead. But face it he must. No amount of hiding from it could change what was to happen. There was no escaping what he must do. What he was _expected_ to do.

And so, along with everyone else whether they were aware of it or not, he found himself playing a waiting game. Exactly what they were all waiting for he wasn't entirely sure, but it wouldn't be something that could pass without notice. It would be the beginning of a chain of events that would destroy the lives of many, and not just those who belonged to the wizarding world.

The start of the Second War was imminent.

To many people it had already began, but Harry knew differently. Yes, Voldemort was back, a fact that was at last being acknowledged by the Ministry of Magic. And yes, it appeared he had already set his twisted plans in motion with the mass breakout of his followers from Azkaban Prison, and their recent infiltration of Ministry headquarters.

But what he'd so far accomplished would mean nothing to him, he'd barely even touched the surface of what he intended. The reality was yet to come, and Harry couldn't help feeling torn. Part of him was relieved that nothing had happened since the end of term. But the more realistic part of him knew it was just a matter of time, and he almost wished Voldemort would do something to put an end to the interminable wait.

Harry threw his quill aside with an agitated grunt. Not even his Defence Against the Dark Arts homework, his favourite subject at school, could keep his mind off what wasn't happening elsewhere. He pushed himself off his rumpled bed and padded barefoot to the window, absently ruffling Hedwig's snowy feathers as he passed her cage and receiving a soft peck in return.

Outside, Privet Drive lay cloaked in darkness. Thick clouds hid the stars overhead from view, and all that was visible of the moon in the night sky was a faint silvery glow. Harry stifled a yawn and peered down at Dudley's old watch that he had rescued from the bin last year.

Almost two in the morning.

He dragged himself up onto the window sill and sat looking out over the quiet street, hugging his knees to his chest. The nightmares may have stopped, but he wasn't finding sleeping any easier. It didn't seem to matter how tired he was. The moment his head touched the pillow he was wide awake, so many things running through his mind - Ron and Hermione and the rest of Dumbledore's Army, the incident at the Ministry when they had come face to face with Voldemort and his Death Eaters, Draco Malfoy's father Lucius being arrested by Ministry officials, a tiny revolving Professor Trelawney making her prophecy, his own parents smiling at him from the confines of the Mirror of Erised...

Following Harry's discovery of the prophecy deep within the annals of the Ministry last term, Professor Dumbledore had opened up to Harry in a way he never had before. He had learned a lot of things that brought certain areas of his life into clarity, such as why he'd been left with relatives who didn't want him after the deaths of his parents, the reason behind Snape's hatred for him, and not least of all why Voldemort wanted him dead. But Harry knew deep down that he still didn't know everything. That there was a lot more the ageing Hogwarts headmaster was withholding. Dumbledore had admitted as much himself. Exactly what else was to come? Having found out that he must one day face Voldemort in what would be for both of them a life or death confrontation, surely it couldn't get any worse?

Harry's musings were interrupted by the soft creak of a door on the landing. A sliver of light illuminated the gap under his own door and he could hear his aunt's unmistakeably light footsteps descending the stairs. He managed a wry grin. Moody really had given them sleepless nights. But then the grin fell from his face. Was it that, or was it something else keeping her awake? Aunt Petunia knew enough about the wizarding world from having had a witch as a sister to know who Voldemort was and the threat that his return posed. Maybe it was preying on her mind just as heavily as it was his.

For the briefest of moments, Harry had never felt so close to his aunt. He could hear her in the kitchen, filling the kettle and suddenly found himself wanting to reach out to her. It was ridiculous really, he disliked her as much as she did him. But she _understood_. And he would give anything to talk to someone - anyone - who did. Ron and Hermione sent letters, but it wasn't the same as if they were there. And besides, they were all under instruction from Dumbledore to be extra careful what they wrote about. They hinted at various things but always in a way that wouldn't attract attention should the letters be intercepted.

He really wished he could see them again before term started, but this year that wouldn't be possible. Hermione was on holiday in Italy with her family, and Ron and his sister Ginny had been packed off to Romania with their brother Charlie. 'So that we won't mess in OotP business', Ron had complained in one of his letters. Harry smiled inwardly as he remembered their attempts to listen in on the Order of the Phoenix's meetings during their stay at number 12, Grimmauld Place a year ago. But thinking about the ancestral home of the Black family brought Sirius to the forefront of his thoughts again.

At that precise moment Harry missed his two best friends more than he ever had before.

He was just about to leave the window and head downstairs when a movement in the street below caught his eye. Harry froze, keeping as still as he could, his eyes scanning the pavement at the bottom of the Dursley's drive. For a while he saw nothing, and was ready to put it down to his overwrought imagination when a shadow at the back of Uncle Vernon's car shifted. Harry squinted into the darkness, straining his eyes to catch another glimpse but all was still. For several minutes he waited, until a slight breeze shook the leaves of the bushy Rhododendron in the middle of the lawn, drawing his attention. When he looked back at the car it was just in time to see a small black shape shoot out from beneath and dart across the road.

As it headed for the gate of the house opposite, a security light lit up and bathed it in a pool of golden light. It paused, turning its vivid green eyes to Harry. It gazed at him for a moment, its mouth opening in a silent miaow, white fangs gleaming. And then it was gone - over the gate and down the path into the darkness in one swift dash.

Harry let out the breath he hadn't realised he was holding and tried to laugh it off. It was only a cat, one of batty old Mrs Figg's if he wasn't mistaken. Nothing to get spooked over.

But the frown didn't leave his brow as he slithered off the sill, and the goose bumps on his arms had nothing to do with the night-time chill on the landing as he left his bedroom. He hadn't liked the way the cat had stopped and looked at him. He knew it was silly, but it seemed to have been regarding him with an expression of pity. And he knew enough by now to know that Mrs Figg's cats weren't quite as ordinary as they appeared.

Besides, he felt sure that whatever that shadow was, it was too large to have been just a cat.

Dudley snorted in his sleep as Harry passed his bedroom door. And then something that had been nudging at the edge of Harry's thoughts finally butted in. Why was Privet Drive so dark? What had happened to the street lamps? Not one of them had been lit. This dawning realisation wasn't what brought him to an abrupt halt at the top of the stairs however, his hand gripping the bannister so hard his knuckles turned white. It was the ear piercing scream that suddenly split the silence of the night in two, and the accompanying flash of green light from the kitchen that lit up the hallway and turned his blood to ice.

Aunt Petunia!

But before Harry could move, Uncle Vernon came charging out onto the landing in his green-checked underpants, shaking the chintz duvet to the floor. "Petunia!" he bellowed, his face ashen. He didn't acknowledge his nephew's presence other than to push him aside in his rush to get down the stairs. Still half-asleep however, he missed the bottom step and fell with a grunt onto his backside in the hall where he sat, winded. Harry, who was right behind him, managed to avoid him with a well-timed leap. He turned in the direction of the kitchen and stumbled to a stop at the sight that greeted him.

The conservatory doors were wide open and a hunched figure was crouched over the lifeless body of Aunt Petunia, dragging her awkwardly by the shoulders into the garden. He lifted his head as Harry appeared and Harry's heart sank into his stomach.

Huffing and puffing, Uncle Vernon was struggling to his feet behind him. Harry wasted no time. He turned to him, grabbing him by the arms. "Get upstairs," he hissed. "Get Dudley and get out of here!"

His uncle blinked at him as if he'd never seen Harry before.

"Now!" Harry urged desperately, trying to turn him back towards the stairs. It didn't matter that these were the Dursleys. Yet another death had happened because of him and he would do all he could to prevent more.

But it was too late. A bewildered Vernon Dursley had looked past Harry's shoulder to see the limp body of his wife disappearing down the garden path, between the flower beds. "Petunia!" he bellowed again and this time it was Harry who ended up on the floor winded. He immediately scrambled back up and followed after his uncle who was blundering through the kitchen, bits of a broken mug crunching beneath his feet. "Uncle Vernon," he yelled, "it's no use. There's nothing you can do." He was vaguely aware of the front door banging open behind him. "You need to get out of here," he continued, his words falling on deaf ears. All his uncle was concerned about was his wife, he didn't understand the danger that he himself could be in.

Harry hesitated, unsure what to do, and in that instant someone shouted his name from the hallway. Harry looked back and for the first time ever actually found himself wishing that this _was_ one of his nightmares. Arabella Figg was advancing towards him in a flowery dressing gown and slippers, a lurid pink hairnet covering her rollered hair, and brandishing a wand in a manner that didn't instil confidence. "Get down boy," she demanded, and Harry promptly dropped to his knees just in time to see a trail of yellow sparks shoot over him and strike Uncle Vernon on the back of the head.

The effect was immediate. Just like the characters in the cartoons that Dudley still watched, Vernon Dursley froze in mid-step, his feet not even touching the ground. Then almost in slow motion, he toppled forward like a felled tree, coming to rest face down on the gravel path with a heavy crunch.

Harry winced. He turned to gape questioningly at Mrs Figg as she reached his side and extended a wrinkled hand to him.

"Stunned him," she said by way of an explanation, then peered at the body and added faintly, "... I hope." Harry noticed the old lady was shaking as she helped him to his feet.

"But..." Harry frowned in confusion. "I thought you were a squib?"

Mrs Figg shushed him with her hands. "Yes, but they don't know that," she whispered, nodding her head at the stooped figure now stood at the end of the garden. Petunia Dursley lay in a crumpled heap at his feet.

Harry looked from Mrs Figg, to the wand, and then to his uncle. "But how did you-?" he began.

"That's not important," his elderly neighbour interrupted, a nervous edge to her voice. "What is important is getting you out of here while we still can." With frequent glances over her shoulder, Mrs Figg took Harry by the arm and attempted to usher him towards the front door but Harry shook free and turned back.

The figure was watching him from beneath his hooded cloak, almost as if he was waiting for him.

"Come on boy," the old lady warned in a low voice. "There could be more of them and a simple stun won't be much use if there is."

But Harry shook his head. He had recognised Aunt Petunia's killer, a man who regardless of anything else owed Harry a life debt. This alone assured him his life was in no danger tonight. He gritted his teeth. The shock and disbelief at what had happened was quickly being taken over by a seething anger. "I don't care how many there are," he stated simply. "I want some answers."

"Now isn't the time for answers," Mrs Figg replied in exasperation. But seeing the stubborn look on his face, she pressed the wand she was clutching into his hand without another word and hobbled through the conservatory after him, her small beady eyes peering all around as they reached the doors.

Harry paused. "Wait here," he said softly.

"I don't like this..." Mrs Figg hissed.

Harry's reply was swallowed up in a muted curse as he trod on something that screeched loudly, almost making him jump out of his skin.

"Twinkie!" Mrs Figg gasped, and bent clumsily to extract the small black feline's claws from where it had embedded them in Harry's ankle. Harry's eyes watered as she pulled them free. From the look of rebuke she gave him as she straightened with the offending creature cradled in her arms, he felt sure she'd deliberately been less gentle than she could have.

Harry shook his head in irritation. "Just... wait here," he reiterated. His fingers tightened on the unfamiliar wand as he stepped cautiously outside and scanned the shadowed garden. All was still and quiet. He slowly made his way down the path, stepping carefully over the prostrate form of Vernon Dursley.

The figure at the end of the garden shuffled his feet warily as Harry approached. He had the air of someone who wanted to be anywhere other than here, and given his history with the Potter family it wasn't at all surprising.

They stood facing each other, ten feet or so apart, Harry trying as hard as he could not to look down into the horror-stricken, wide-eyed face of his dead aunt. Images of Cedric Diggory's face, also struck down by the killing curse, filled his head instead and it was all Harry could do to focus on the scruffy, smelly little rodent-faced man in front of him.

Peter Pettigrew, betrayer of Harry's parents, the man therefore responsible for their murders and also the incarceration of his other friend Sirius Black who had taken the blame, snuffled and looked up at Harry, a malicious smile revealing his prominent yellow front teeth. "Harry Potter..."

Harry studied Pettigrew with a hard steady gaze.

Nonplussed, Pettigrew lifted his right arm out in front of him and slowly clenched and unclenched the solid silver hand attached to it, admiring it as he had when Voldemort had first bestowed it upon him. "Do you remember the last time we met?" he snivelled. "I hope the wound to your arm healed as well as mine..."

Harry clenched his jaw. The last time he'd had the misfortune of being in Pettigrew's company, Pettigrew had sliced a deep cut into Harry's arm for a few drops of blood, before slicing off his own hand and proceeding to resurrect Lord Voldemort with some form of archaic magic.

The cut itself had healed well thanks to the skill of Madam Pomfrey, the Hogwarts school nurse, although there was a resulting scar and this irritated Harry more than anyone knew.

It was a constant reminder whenever he looked at it of the part he'd been forced to play in Voldemort's return to the physical world. Something that conflicted sharply with the scar he was renowned for – the lightning bolt on his forehead. The scar that had formed from the very strike that had destroyed Voldemort in the first place.

What angered Harry even more was that both of these scars were tied to deaths that he in some way blamed himself for - his parents and Cedric Diggory. He often wondered how many more of these scars he would have to bear before it was all over...

Pettigrew was leering up at him from the hooded cowl of his cloak, awaiting Harry's reaction. Harry fought back the anger inside and said simply, "Why?"

Pettigrew immediately glanced down to the body at his feet and he gave a wheezy chuckle. "Not as pretty as her sister," he said slyly and poked Petunia Dursley with a grubby boot.

"Why?" Harry repeated in a tight voice, trying to keep a rein on the urge to wrestle this foul creature head first into the worm-filled compost bin behind him and leave him there for the Ministry officials to find.

Pettigrew looked up at him, his large eyes narrowed quizzically. "What's this Harry Potter? Upset at your aunt's death?" He pushed her more forcibly, his eyes fixed on Harry's face. "After the way they treated you, you should be on your knees in the dirt thanking me." He broke into muffled, raspy laughter.

"Exactly," Harry forced out through gritted teeth. He took a step forward, clenching Mrs Figg's wand in his fist. "They never wanted me. They hated my parents, and they hated me because of my parents. So why?"

Pettigrew shuffled backwards, his eyes darting from the wand to Harry's face and back again.

"Why kill her?" Harry pressed, pointing at Petunia. "What's the point? It means nothing to me."

Pettigrew stared blankly at him for a moment and then broke into more raspy laughter. "Seems it does," he muttered, more to himself but loud enough for Harry to hear.

Harry frowned at his reaction. "You're wrong. Why should I care that you've killed _her_?" he spat.

This caused Pettigrew to laugh even harder and Harry bristled. "But my parents..." He struggled to keep his voice under control. "You may not have done it with your own hands, but you are as much responsible for their deaths as Voldemort is."

The laughter died abruptly.

Harry took another step forward, slowly and deliberately raising his wand. "I should have let Sirius kill you when he had the chance. Maybe it's time I put that right."

Pettigrew chuckled nervously and shook his head. "You wouldn't," he stated. But there was a definite waver of uncertainty in his words.

"Why wouldn't I?" Harry returned quietly.

In the next instant he was on the ground breathing in dirt, his head throbbing. He coughed and spluttered but when he tried to lift himself up he was pushed back down by a foot on the back of his neck. He twisted his head to one side with difficulty. Pettigrew had slumped to his knees, his body shaking with renewed laughter.

"A message for you," he wheezed. He grabbed hold of Petunia's colourless hand in his equally colourless silver one and promptly Apparated away with a loud crack, his final words echoing after him. "You're running out of places to hide, Harry Potter..."

The pressure on his neck intensified. His fingers dug helplessly into the dry soil of the flower bed, his legs kicking out but meeting only air. The wand was gone. He opened his mouth to try summoning it back to him but he could only manage a grunt. He vaguely wondered where Mrs Figg was before a sharp kick was delivered to the side of his head. Another followed, then a third, until he was barely conscious.

"You couldn't, Harry."

Harry fought against the blanket of fog clouding his head. The voice was muffled yet it sounded familiar.

"You don't have it in you to perform a killing curse. And that will be your downfall when the time comes."

This time, as a final blow struck him and he slipped into the darkness that opened up before him, he was certain. He knew that voice.

And it shocked him to the core to realise who it belonged to.


End file.
